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Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Zombie virus. Nuclear war. Asteroid. Post apocalyptic writing has been popular for years and it is a personal favorite genre of mine. Some of my favorite books, like Cormac McCarthy's The Road or Stephen King's The Stand are post apocalyptic. I want to hear about your version of the apocalypse. It can be as long or short as you want. You can post it to my facebook page or into the Apocalypse topic on my forum or just respond here. Be creative!

All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

At the head of a gray basin whose old-growth
conifers give way to gumdrop glacial boulders, where a winding crystalline
stream dumps over gray ledges through deep pools and over tall cascades, Mount
of the Holy Cross stands guard with its stern, weather-worn face.

Holy Cross, a 14er in Colorado

We stood at a kink in Half Moon
Trail, lost in wonderment by our first look at one of Colorado’s most
impressive sights. “That mountain is dangerous,” we were warned by concerned
family members. “No one should ever climb that peak.” It seemed like a lot of
fuss for a mountain that garnered a paltry class 2 rating. But of the many climbs
my wife, Ella, and I have attempted over the years, perhaps only Capitol Peak
generated a more negative reaction from our family and non-climbing friends. For
me, however, encountering the stark beauty of that great mountain for the first
time is one of the most powerful and emotional memories from my mountaineering
life.

In my opinion, Mount of the Holy
Cross is the crown jewel of the Sawatch Range, a spine of peaks in the center
of the state that includes many famous summits such as Mt. Elbert, Mt. Massive,
Mt. Princeton and La Plata. Holy Cross’s rugged north and east faces seem out
of character in a range dominated by sleepy giants with long, relatively gentle
slopes. The craggy, boulder-strewn basin into which the famous cross drains
feels out-of-place, almost as if it was plucked out of more rugged neighboring
ranges and dropped randomly here, 13 miles southwest of Vail.

The postcard image of Colorado’s
rood in the sky has inspired believers and non-believers alike ever since an
1873 photo by William H. Jackson first proved true the rumors of a mountain
bearing the holy crucifix. It was featured in an oil painting by famed
landscape artist Thomas Moran, as well as a poem entitled “The Cross of Snow”
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. For decades the ostensible sign from God drew
zealots and fanatics to make pilgrimages to the mountain to witness it. And the
great cross of snow did not disappoint.

In contemporary times, the fervor
surrounding the religious iconography of this diminutive 14er (the 3rd
lowest of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks) has waned dramatically. The peak,
however, continues to draw alpine and mountaineering enthusiasts from all over
the world. Its popularity, combined with some unique and challenging terrain
and a series of tragic and semi-mysterious accidents, has lent the mountain a
new reputation. One of mystery, menace and danger.

Holy Cross has been called the
“Bermuda Triangle” of the Colorado high country. So numerous have been the
rescues, accidents and near-misses that people have come to view the area as
cursed. The Holy Cross Wilderness is a rugged and convoluted landscape notorious
for misleading trails and terrain that can quickly lead inexperienced and
ill-prepared hikers astray. From the primary access point, the Half Moon Trail,
hikers and mountaineers on most routes must climb up and over Half Moon Pass
before reaching the base of the peak, an undertaking that requires at least
1,000-feet of “wasted” elevation gain in both directions. All of these factors combine
to make Holy Cross more difficult and dangerous than your average class 2
Sawatch 14er.

Of all the accidents and rescues
documented in the wilderness surrounding Holy Cross, two incidents in
particular provided the most potent fuel for the emerging mythos of Colorado’s
most mysterious mountain.

In June of 2010, a 31 year-old man
from Chicago named James Nelson went missing while on a 5-day backpack trip in
the Holy Cross Wilderness. Despite an exhaustive search that included over 100
volunteers, the days turned to weeks and the weeks into years and still no sign
of the missing man was found. It wasn’t until more than two years later that
his tattered campsite was spotted near an abandoned mining camp, and his
remains were found at last. An investigation of the years-old scene, revealed
no evidence of foul play. However, a journal may have indicated he was
afflicted by altitude sickness. Still today, however, it is difficult to draw
firm conclusions about what happened to Nelson, and the events surrounding his
death are somewhat shrouded in mystery.

An even more disturbing and prominent
incident was the 2005 disappearance of Michelle Vanek, a 35-year-old mother of
four. Vanek along with her climbing partner had attempted Halo Ridge, a long
and circuitous route that traverses several sub peaks including Holy Cross
Ridge (Colorado’s 91st highest mountain), en route to the summit of Mount
of the Holy Cross. Halo Ridge is known for its up-and-down terrain and long
exposure to the above-treeline elements. Just five-hundred vertical feet shy of
the summit but out of food and water, Vanek decided she was too exhausted to
continue and gave her partner permission to go ahead to the summit. When he
returned, however, there was no sign of Vanek. Despite the largest search in
Colorado history, with over 700 people committed to the cause, no trace of
Vanek was ever seen again.

* * *

The morning of our climb for was
cool and calm, ideal for an attempt at the mythological Holy Cross. As we packed
our climbing bags and departed our camp along the bubbling banks of East Cross
Creek, first light cast camellia hues over the basin. Far to the north in the
distance, the blade-like summits of the Gore Range cleaved the morning sky. In
the ethereal light, the mountains could have been heavenly.

The Gore Range as seen from the trail to Holy Cross

By 9:00 am after a strenuous but
non-exposed climb, we stood on the summit in ecstasy. “We made it!” Ella
shouted with a hug. A brilliant panorama spread as far as we could see in every
direction.

The clear skies had filled with
high, horsetail clouds and the wind was beginning to whip at our shirtsleeves.
We basked in the commanding beauty of the mountain for half an hour as the
morning gradually matured. Knowing what a long day we had ahead, we grudgingly departed
the summit and made the long descent back to camp. By the time we broke down
our tent, re-packed our bags, and slogged partway up Half Moon Pass to the
final overlook where Holy Cross would disappear from view for good, the skies
had changed dramatically.

A terrible storm, black and
menacing, hovered directly over the serrated mountain. The tempest appeared to
be a product of the peak itself, boiling out of its summit and casting doom on
the basin below. The mountain looked more evil now than angelic.

A sharp crack of thunder shook us
back to reality.

“Come on,” Ella implored anxiously.
“We need to get going.” We still had to climb over the open exposure of Half
Moon Pass. Warily, I turned my back on Holy Cross, feeling moved by that potent
place. Is there something mythical that gives power to Holy Cross? A spiritual
vortex or religious portal? Or is it just something innate in the mountain’s
rugged beauty and naturally complex terrain?

As we hiked out with forks of lightning stabbing the
earth all around us, I couldn’t decide what difference there was between the
two anyway.

Follow Me on Twitter!Sign up for my Mailing ListAll writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Sunday, December 11, 2016

A tunnel of black, leafless trees closed around the rider. This is no night to die, he thought. But some malice was drawing near, he felt it. Like cold eyes leering through crooked gorse. He glanced over his shoulder. The road was empty. The only sound was the cadenced clop of his horse's hooves on the rime-dusted highway. The only sight the crescent moon darting through the naked branches like some phantom bird. He fixed his gaze ahead where the Great Highway tapered to an inky void.

His horse was exhausted, close to collapse. He'd coaxed the poor beast between trot and canter ever since the letter had landed in his care. His fingers slipped into his lapel pocket and closed around the folded parchment. His mind turned to it more and more.

As a rider in the Order of the Post, ferrying messages all across the realm was his life. But this mission had been unprecedented: he'd been tasked to carry a single letter.

Post riders, "featherfoots" as they were called, never made such a long journey for a solitary parcel. It was simple economics. This detail of the commission alone had raised his guard. Even more unnerving, however, was the seal melted over the folded corner: the double eagles of the Supreme Chancellor.

It was reprehensible for a letter's seal to break, especially if the seal in question was of the royal palace. Even worse, though, it had been under his care when the parchment worked free.

The letter arrived at his station in the hand of a featherfoot he'd never before seen. A sum of three gold pikes was offered for the effort, more than double the usual rate. He'd been thrilled by his lucky chance. But now, this deep into the hated North, he'd give the coins back and more to return and refuse.

He'd pulled out the letter subconsciously. Again. He knew the addressee by heart:

Commander-in-Charge, The Shield

The Shield. He shivered. He didn't envy the featherfoot on the next leg of the journey who'd have to traverse through there.

Yes, reading the letter was forbidden. And yes, he eventually failed the test. It inscribed by a hasty hand:

Lock down the dragon. 83-32-7279. Nobody in or out. Await further instructions.

-SG

He knew it all now by heart. Lock down the dragon. For the thousandth time he guessed what it meant. Probably it was code to shield the true meaning from prying eyes. Like his. But the initials, S.G., combined with the seal of the Chancellor, made it hard not to assume that the hurried-but-still-tidy handwriting could belong to none other than the Supreme Chancellor herself.

And there was the Shield. Every man, woman and child in all four kingdoms knew the tales about it. The rider's bowels stirred with excitement and dread. Maybe it's not code at all. Maybe the old legends are true.

As night lengthened, so did its merciless teeth. The rider snugged his wool cloak. I hate the North. He was a man of Rocklands and felt like an intruder when ordered to make deliveries in Dehn. It was a strange land, with evil, barren landscapes and grim, dark-haired people who spoke in coarse tongues. At times, he rode through Pent or even Seldor for weeks, and though the culture there was quite different than back home, he never felt nearly as out-of-place as he did in Dehn for even the briefest visit.

At times, he rode through Pent or even Seldor for weeks, and though the culture there was quite different than back home, he never felt nearly as out-of-place as he did in Dehn for even the briefest visit.

The glowing stationhouse windows blinked through a break in the trees, blazing like beacons in the colorless wilderness. It should have been comforting—something familiar in an alien sea—but instead, it only re-kindled his dread.

A letter from the Supreme Chancellor delivered to me by an unknown featherfoot. Destination: the Shield. Seal broken. Me responsible. The whole thing was ludicrous. How could he have been so foolish?

He eased his horse to a stop and dismounted gracefully. With a deep breath, he flattened his gray tunic, which bore only the winged foot that was the emblem of the Order. He didn't bother lashing his horse to the tethering pole. As soon as the letter was delivered he planned to commence the return south immediately, even if that meant riding through the night.

With the closed door in front of him, he straightened his back and sucked down a slow inhale. Forging his face into a look of confidence, the rider rapped the wood three times.

"Enter!"

Inside, a ribald man lounged with his feet propped on a low table. His oily, shoulder-length hair formed a messy curtain over his eyes. Deeply stained fingers clutched a smoldering pipe, smoke billowing like flowing runes . He wore the same insignia on his brown tunic: the winged foot.

"You're late." His voice was throaty and baritone. A pale keloid clove his right eyebrow.

"Where's the stationmaster?"

"Off duty." Tobacco haze blurred his face. The rider frowned. It wasn't just unusual, it was counter to codified featherfoot principles. "You're here for the delivery?"

The rider mined the letter from his pocket. The scarred man rolled his broad figure upright and extended a long arm corded with muscle, hand open expectantly. The rider hesitated then deposited his charge. It should have felt good to be rid of it.

"You broke the seal." An accusation, not a question. The rider retreated a step.

"It came open on its own!" He tapped the hilt of his rapier.

The scarred man stepped forward again, brushing his cloak to the side to reveal a black scabbard and the hilt of his own glistening sword.

"But the seal is broken. And from your watch. You know the oaths. And this bears the royal seal!"

"I read nothing!"

He laughed. "You're lying. I can see it in your eyes."

The rider gauged his odds against the much larger man. He'd been selected to the prestigious featherfoot order for being light and fast in the saddle. But after crossing the wide realm too many times to recount he'd learned a thing or two about defense. Still...

"I would swear to it. Hand on the Holy Book!"

"What man, alone on the Great Highway, could resist such temptation?"

"I did not read the letter!" He tried to sound confident, certain he failed.

The scarred man took another stride forward and the rider, a step back. The dance continued until his back met the door's iron handle. The scarred man stopped, flaring nostrils only feet away.

The scarred man smiled. "I believe you."

He wheeled away with a laugh. The rider exhaled.

"I take my vows seriously." The sooner I start back for home the better. He aimed to be as far from this place as possible by daybreak. "Tell you the truth, I'm glad to be rid of it. I want to get back south into Rocklands. It's so—"

He didn't see the knife coming. Only a fleeting glimmer as the cold steel reflected the room's only lamp. His world flipped over in blinding, searing pain. Shocked and speechless, he grasped at the hilt of the blade protruding from his chest. A scarlet rose of blood blossomed down his tunic.

The rider made a feeble attempt to draw his sword, but his strength failed too fast. The scarred man puffed his pipe casually.

As the rider dropped to his knees, then to his side, the world eddied slowly away to black. The last thing he saw was the scarred man neatly placing a hat atop his head and stepping over his body for the door.

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Thursday, December 8, 2016

After a terrible plague nearly decimates humanity from the face of the world, Paxton has been left alone to deal with the vast emptiness, not too mention the crushing survivor's guilt, alone. But when a strange visitation shatters everything he thought he knew about the post-plague world, Paxton is drawn from the safety of his ranch on an increasingly complicated adventure where his own mind, and even his dreams, might prove to be the biggest threat of all.

Part 1- An Unexpected Visitor
Paxton has a surprise visitation while working on his family's remote ranch that makes him re-think everything he thought he knew about the post-apocalyptic world.

Part 2- Gathering His Life
Paxton gathers everything he needs for a journey to the empty town of Glenwood Springs, a place he hasn't visited in years. But is it as empty as he thought?

Follow Me on Twitter!Sign up for my Mailing ListAll writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions

Thursday, December 1, 2016

The story of Albert Aldrich: writer, stoner, caretaker of his broken family, and part-time peeping tom. When Albert discovers a long-forgotten cache of his grandfather's journals, he embarks on a quest to tell his grandfather's story. He might create a better ending for them both.

In this sprawling epic novel, readers get both the story of Albert Aldrich, a broken and troubled young writer, and of Micky McKeever, his war-ravaged grandfather. While Albert attempts to bring meaning to his disappointing and downwardly spiraling existence, he encounters an outspoken city-girl who might strike the perfect balance to his rural Alaskan life. Mick, on the other hand, is a wildly popular musician and a GI in the 89th Infantry. Mick meets a gorgeous and independent nurse named Cassie and the two strike a thrilling romance with the worst possible timing.

The two narratives of Albert and Mick come together with fantastic complexity as Albert struggles to fashion a better denouement for them both.

Novel excerpts:

Prologue- The Storm
A crabbing boat is in trouble in a Bering Sea storm and the Captain grapples with life and the state of his soul.Part 1- Albert in Alaska
Albert Aldrich struggles to balance his life as a writer, caretaker of his family and full-time enthusiast of marijuana.

Follow Me on Twitter!Sign up for my Mailing ListAll writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions